


The Click of a Camera

by Unwoundclock



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Blood, M/M, Rough Kissing, Scars, Self Confidence Issues, They're both 18, rough everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 00:14:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3957220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unwoundclock/pseuds/Unwoundclock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="center">
  <p> </p>
  <p>    <i>At the time you weren't expecting him, you weren't prepared for Peter Parker at all. </i><br/>After Deadpool attempts to assassinate a young journalist named Peter Parker, he finds the kid following him.</p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

_[Wade Wilson's POV]_

 I. They call you crazy with a capital C. You don't remember it ever hurting though, not as much as the scars lining your sides do or the bruises on your skin that are more common than the cold. Those ache, their words never do. At least, that's what you tell yourself, staring into the sink instead of the mirror because you can never quite look yourself in the eyes anymore. "You're a hero, Wade," you say at the same time you're thinking _you're a freak_  and you've never been able to tell which voice is louder.

II. You're life packed into spandex. You're shame stuffed into one head. You wonder if your insanity is only skin deep. People look at you and see a monster and you've only ever lived to please. If that's what they want, then a monster you'll become. A hero was never what you were meant to be anyway, so maybe it's fitting. You're not a hero when you shoot a man in the head because he was already on his way out. You're no savior when you rescue a cat from a building you'd just burned down. Even as messed up as you are, you know what you're doing, and the blood never quite stops staining the corners of your eyes. You whip your head around because you think someone's dying; the pedestrians across the street from you give you a weird look and walk faster. You're not hallucinating, you're just remembering.

III. You cough up your lungs sometimes, but you're never quiet. You've never been quiet in your life. If you were then you'd be alone, and being alone is worse than dying. 

IV. Peter Parker. You feel like you've heard that name before as you run your tongue over your top teeth. You touch the picture with your finger, thumb smearing over the guy's eyes. Maybe you've seen his face before; there's something about his eyes. You sniff—allergies in the spring are worse than gunshot wounds—and get your guns ready. You'll make this quick, just because you kind of like the kid for some reason. Maybe it's because he's kind of cute, or maybe just because he's around your age. He's probably not a good guy though, not if he's on your hit list. Or maybe he is. It's not really your position to ask, and you've never felt the need to before. "Sorry Parker, today's not your lucky day," you say confidently as you open your apartment door. You thought you were prepared. At the time you weren't expecting _him_ , you weren't prepared for Peter Parker at all.

V. There's a sharp pain as a fist gets jammed up your ribs, pushes up against your diaphragm. Kid knew how to throw a punch, you'd give him that. Guns are scattered on the ground and you don't know how but your hands are tangled up in brown hair and some kid named Peter Parker is clenching his teeth as he clutches your throat like it's a rope and he's dangling off a cliff. You know that you could kill him right then—you have a mini in your back pouch—but you don't. You let him choke you until the room starts flickering and you start to black out. You've always loved the feeling of dying. Sometimes you fantasize that you won't come back, that it'll be the last time you see light. Then the fingers around your neck loose their muscle and you watch Peter Parker stare down at you, the weirdest look on his face. "What the hell, Deadpool?" He asks and you start to cry.

VI. Peter Parker doesn't die and you don't know why your eyes are still wet when you get home and turn on the TV. _How did he know my name?_  Nobody ever knows your name.

VII. You're blowing a guy's head off when you see him the second time. It's probably chance, one of those weird acts of fate that always seem to happen to you. You're covered in guts and missing a chunk of your shoulder when you turn around to the _click_ of a camera. He's standing in the mouth of the alleyway, eyes so wide you see that they're brown. You look at him and he slowly lowers his arms, blinking furiously. You remember that awkward look he had on his face when you started to cry. This would probably be less embarrassing if you just sliced your head off. "I'm not Spiderman," you say and he just frowns. "I know," Peter says, and he says it in a weird way like he's best friends with the superhero and knows that he wouldn't like being compared to someone like Deadpool. He's probably right in thinking so. You shrug and push the kid aside as you pick up your stuff from the alley. "I might not be feeling as nice this time," you say and Peter—what is he, eighteen or something?—snaps another picture of you and walks away into the crowd.

VII. You suck in a breath as you hold an icepack to your shoulder. Yeah, you have a healing factor but that doesn't mean that it hurts any less. Pain flows through your body as you content yourself with watching how your skin slowly molds back together. It draws together slowly, blood sucking in like a shitty reversed video. You manage to deal with the pain long enough to pick up the TV remote and turn on your cheap set. The news flickers on and the first thing you're met with is your masked face in the backdrop. The reporter is talking but your attention is on the words _Hero Deadpool saved civilians from a terrorist attempt_. They don't mention how you'd shot the guy's head off, or that you'd only been doing it for money. They don't even confuse you with Spiderman. The reporter is calling you a hero and nobody's ever called you that before. Another picture of you is put up and you recognize it. Your shoulder is blurred out (too graphic for television, probably) but you know that it was taken by that boy. That boy Peter Parker.

VIII. You're a blister, something that keeps opening up again once it's supposed to be healed. You're insanity boxed, just sane enough to talk but too gone to know when to stop. You're eighteen-years-old and you've never felt loved. The closest you've ever been to someone is knee-deep in their blood. You don't need heaven; you need a gun and a bottle of gin so you can keep shooting yourself until Satan finally accepts your plea for damnation. You want to burn if it'll get you away from the loneliness that encases you every day, in every damn way it can think of. Psychologists could argue about what part of your childhood ruined you but that doesn't help you a bit when you're facing yourself and all you're seeing red.

IX. You know that he's looking for you. You find him tailing you one day while you're on your way to gauge some drug lord in the stomach. He's pretty noticeable when he's running with all of that expensive photographer gear and you kind of want to stop him just so you can point him towards some good superheros like Ironman or Spiderman or something. If he keeps following you he's going to end up with a bullet hole through his head sooner rather than later. You know this, yet you go a little slower, take less corners. You like to see the toes of his shoes in the side of your eyes, like to imagine his breath coming out hard.

X. You find your guy and make it as bloody as possible. You want to show that boy, Peter Parker, that you're not good, you're not worth wasting breath over. You embody _I'm fucked up_  as you spell sins in blood, your fingers impaled all the way through some addict's lungs. You don't even wipe off your hands. You walk out the front door, shameless in your debauchery because there's nothing left for you to be proud of. The boy runs up the stairs. He sees you and you expect him to run. You expect a lot of things. Vomit, maybe. A scowl. A shouted "you're disgusting." You don't expect him to stare at the gore straight-faced, raise his arms, and take a picture. _Click_ , the lens goes, and you stare at him. He stares back.

XI. "You killed again," Peter says and you don't say anything because he's right and you don't know what to do. _Do what you've always done_.

XII. His face is soft between your gloved fingers and his hands are scrambling at your sides. You have to kill him, right? That's the only way things will go back to normal. He's going blue and your jaw locks. His breath stutters out in time with your heart beat. Suddenly, he stops struggling and just looks at your mask, like he can see through it, see through it and into your thought-to-be non-existant soul. His eyes are brown like cedar woods and Parker, what a fitting name. You can't do it. You can't do it again. How many times do you have to fail to prove to yourself that there are just a lot of things you can't do? You let go of his neck and he collapses to the ground, gasping. His hands are planted on the ground in front of him and you want to walk away. He rasps, "didn't you want to be a hero?" You can't look at him.

XIII. You still can't even look at yourself.

XIV. _Didn't you want to be a hero?_ How does he know, how does he know? Nobody's supposed to know anything about you so why does he? You wonder what else he knows. _Does he know how alone I am?_

XV. It's a mistake, another one. You're at gunpoint (nothing new) but so is Spiderman (also nothing new, but a little more troubling). You're not sure how a pretty standard night of assassinations got so dangerous, but it has, and you're not sure what you can do to ensure that your body gets blown to bits instead of Spidey's. "Hey meatface, over here. What, don't know how to work a gun or something? My face is up here. Let 'em rip." Spiderman is glaring at you (at least you think he is) and shaking his head _no_  but you don't know what else you can do in this situation. _Either me or you, buddy, and you're actually useful while I'm just a pain in life's ass_. Besides, you've got the whole healing factor so it doesn't really matter. You know that the gun only has a few bullets left. The big mobster-lookalike decides that you're annoying enough to treat to a round of bullets and your body shakes as they hit your chest. You count them. One, two, whoop, four, five, six. The gun clicks empty. "Wade! Goddammit!" you hear Spiderman yell and you wonder why he sounds so worried. You wonder why that voice sounds so familiar. You wonder about a lot of things, but you know by now that you don't usually find the answers you're looking for. The world slinks into black and finally you're at peace again.

XVI. While you're in that odd limbo between life and death (feels like being conscious in a dream), you remember something. _You're sitting on the rooftop of an eight-story hotel with Spiderman. "I admire you, you know? I've always wanted to be a hero like you." He turns around and looks confused, "then why do you kill people? Heros don't kill innocents." You wince a little behind your mask but outwardly shrug, "what if they're not innocent? Trust me, a lot of people aren't." Spiderman just shakes his head and continues to stare out over the city. Silence._

XVII. You wake up with bile halfway up your throat and to the sound of guns going off. You blink and realize that your chest is still slowly healing back together. You look to your side and Spiderman's chair is empty. A few more rounds go off and then there's some gut-wrenching screams and everything goes silent. You try to sit up but your spine's too fucked up to even think about doing that yet. You stare at the ceiling for a while until Spiderman walks into your line of vision. "Hey," you say, the taste of blood on your tongue. "Yeah, hey. How're you doing?" He asks and you shrug, "oh, you know, the usual. My chiropractor says I have to stop lying down on abandoned factory floors but like, that's what I do, you know?" The joke falls kind of flat but Spiderman breathes out a laugh anyway and sits down next to you. "You didn't kill them," you say, and he's silent for a moment. "They're passed out in the other room. The police are coming."

XVIII. "Why do you follow me?" You ask.

XIX. "What draws a moth to a flame?"

XX. He's blood beneath your fingers, hot and fluid. He's the crack of bones, sharp and fast. His lips on yours are chapped and they stick like tape on every slick brush. His fingers slide up your suit, tracing over the visible bullet wounds. They're still bleeding but he doesn't care. His fingers are red and you've never seen a more beautiful mess. You moan and he clenches his hand over your mouth. You go dizzy and he doesn't stop. You're in heaven and he's God. You've never wanted to not be bad as much as right then. Maybe then you'd be able to taste the salt of his sweat more often.

XXI. _Click_. He puts away his camera and leaves you spilling your guts out on the floor.

XXII. "Call me," you yell.

XXIII. You're a sunburn, a lost game cartridge. You're an overplayed song, an empty tissue box. You're a lot of things, you realize. You watch him tail behind you on the street while you jump from roof to roof. You don't really know why he does it, but he does. He takes a picture of you every time and you wonder what he does with all of them. He stands, takes a picture, and then leaves. _Click._  If you manage to control yourself and not kill anyone, he takes two.

XXIV. _Click. Click._

XXV. He says that you're life disguised as death, a smile on a hanged man, the _I love you_  on the bottom of letters from dead soldiers. You're a kiss before a punch in the throat, the only survivor from a sunk ship, a lying G _o Away_  sign, a lonely person at the center of everyone's attention. You're special he says and you scoff and say, "yeah, I'm a freak." He disagrees and kisses you once, sweetly. Then he kisses you again just to make your heart bleed. You pull back and he leans towards you, chasing your lips. Chasing you. Maybe this once you're okay with being caught.

XXVI. You still hide your scars. You know that if he didn't leave the first time he saw them then he probably won't leave the second but you're not taking any chances. You can't risk taking any. Not when this is the first good thing to happen to you in...forever. You turn the lights out and cover his eyes. His hand goes up your cheeks and you turn it to the side. He laughs and his fingers rub over the scars like they're speed bumps on your skin. You hold your breath and want to hide. He says that he likes them and you're sure that he's lying. You're not fragile; you're a guy with a gun and a half-lit cigarette. Death follows you like a well trained dog. Yet you're unsure of the wounds that allow him to stare into your soul, into your blood and guts (like he hasn't seen them enough already). So you keep your shirt on and the lights out and try to memorize his lips against yours because every time this happens you swear it's going to be the last.

XXVII. Your masked face is on the TV again and you give Peter a knowing look that he ignores. His eyes are bright on the words _Hero Deadpool apprehends men in charge of sex trafficking_  and you can be proud of that.

XXVIII. "Wade Wilson." He tries the name out on his tongue and you haven't heard that name in so long that it feels like a distant friend. "Yeah, use that."

XXIX. "Nice going, Wade!" He smiles and points his camera at you and the two alive terrorists hanging over your shoulder. _Click. Click._

XXX. Peter Parker. He's the smile in a birthday photo, the flowers next to a gravestone, the 100% on a phone, the snap of a rubber band, a favorite song on the radio, a repeated question that doesn't have an answer, the taste of dentist toothpaste, the feeling of biting your tongue without it bleeding, a paper cut that doesn't hurt. He's a lot of things; he's a lot more than you ever deserved. His name is Peter Parker and he says he loves you. You love him too, in every way you can manage. If that means just slamming bad guys' heads against a wall instead of shooting them, then so be it. You love him in a way that you never thought you'd be able to, not with your messed up past. He's there when you're bloody and he's there when you're both tired and beat up and going to bed. There's a box of pictures of you in his closet and some of them are hanging up on the fridge.

XXXI. "You're almost out of room on the fridge," you comment.

XL. "Then it's time for a bigger one."

 


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

_[Peter Parker's POV]_

I. Being a journalist in New York isn't easy at all, even less so when you have to juggle being a superhero on the side. You wonder if you're burning yourself out, working yourself to death (literally) at such a young age. You can't help it. You're made to save people, you're meant to be a hero. People look at you and they know it. They see your mask and they feel safe. You wouldn't give that up for anything, even if it means dying before you're thirty. It'd be worth it. You laugh at your meetings and grit your teeth when you break some robber's arm not two hours later. You're dual-faced and you live both your lives to their limits. You just wish you had more to live.

II. You've heard about Deadpool from your superhero friends. _He's a creep, he's got some loose ends_ , you never really knew what they meant until you saw him. He's standing not five feet away from you and he's the scariest thing you've ever seen on two feet. He's holding two katanas in a death-grip and a severed head is resting by his feet. He's red and black but mostly red. He's dripping blood like sweat. He slowly turns his head and you feel yourself freeze. You feel your breath catch.

III. "Hey, you're Spiderman! I'm _such_  a big fan! Can I have your autograph?" he asks as he runs up to (nearly scaring you out of your wits) you and pulls out some paper and a pen. He puts his swords away and you remember how to breathe. You shakily pick up the pen and write your name, mostly on autopilot while your brain catches up again. "Thanks, oh wow," he gushes and you've never been so confused in your life. _Who is this guy?_   you wonder. 

IV. Deadpool's actually an okay guy and you can respect that. You don't like his methods, or agree with him most of the time, but he has his reasons and you can't exactly argue that most of his targets were good people. His appearance is gory as hell but he's blunt as fuck and you like that after a long day. He's a smack in the face. He gets you thinking clearly again. One night while you're hanging out he says, "I admire you, you know? I've always wanted to be a hero like you." Deadpool beams at you and and you're confused because you're everything that he isn't. He's reckless, you're tethered. He's free, you're not by any stretch of the imagination. "Then why do you kill people? Heros don't kill innocents." You say, just because that's what you're supposed to. He shrugs casually in that way he's so opt to do, "what if they're not innocent? Trust me, a lot of people aren't." He has a point but no, he's not like you. He's something else. Someone else entirely.

V. You can't say that you're not a little jealous.

VI. You find yourself thinking about him more. The longer the days are, the more you think. You've seen him fight (so deadly you don't have time to blink before it's done and he's gone) and you've seen him die. The dying is the scariest part to you. The first time you saw him get shot to death was probably the weirdest moment of your life. One moment he was bleeding and the next he was wrestling the bad guy to the ground. Okay, some time had elapsed, but not much. The blood had still been gushing from his throat but he'd just done it. You definitely respect that. You might even find that, well, You find that _something_. You're just not sure if you want to put a label to that _something_  just yet. See, you're disciplined. You're a pawn, a knight of the round table, someone that helps but isn't exactly free of responsibility. You don't mind; you live to help. It's just that sometimes you want to be carefree, touch the skylights a little longer, go off with a little bigger of an explosion, disappear for weeks without telling anyone anything. You want to disappear sometimes, even if it's just for a little. When you're with Deadpool you can have that, if just for a few hours. For that time, you're gone.

VII. You're a little surprised when one day he crashes into your office and starts throwing punches. _Does he know about my identity?_  You panic but calm down when he says something along the lines of "Hasta la vista, baby. It's time to die." Without your suit you're a little less cool and a lot more freaked out but you manage to tackle him to the ground (which, really? That shouldn't be possible) and start to choke him. Not the nicest way to apprehend a friend but, well, he was trying to kill you (putting aside that he doesn't know Peter Parker is Spiderman). Deadpool is limp underneath your fingers though and you don't know what the hell is going on so you let go and say "What the hell, Deadpool?" the words slip from your mouth before you can stop them. For a second you think he's going to punch you. Then, instead, he starts crying. You're surprised. You wonder if he'll ever stop surprising you. Probably not. He pushes you off of him easily and you wonder if he was going to let you kill him. _He's crazy._  You want to say something but you're Peter Parker, not Spiderman. Peter Parker doesn't know Deadpool. You watch the mercenary get up and leave, pulling out a little handkerchief from one of his various pouches. You note briefly that's it's pink.

VII. You've never respected anyone more in your life. You've never been more terrified of someone in your life. You've never wanted to kiss someone so much either.

IX. You like how Deadpool does what he wants. He doesn't care if someone thinks he's loud or rude or ugly. He lives with what he has and even if there's something broken beneath it all, he tries so hard to mash all of his cracked parts back together. He continues on breathing. He's died a thousand times and he's still smiling. He'll kill thirty gang members but still goes back to make sure that one street cat is still alive. He's confusing, he's a little too warped to figure out. You don't know when you start falling for him but you know that you are. You realize that he's more more than an escape; he's the place you escape to.

X. You find him in an alley, hunched over some dead guy. He's missing a chunk of his shoulder and he's leaning against the wall. _He's beautiful._  Your hands move themselves to your camera. _Click._

XI. You start following him. He's fast and takes detours and winding streets, but you follow him. Your camera's thumping against your chest as you run but adrenalin is keeping you alight and you want to see him. You want to taste a breath of his world. You want to taste him, if that's an option.

XII. It's worse this time. Blood. Blood everywhere. On the walls, on the ceiling (a lot on the ceiling). You're not sure what you were expecting, considering you know Deadpool's methods. Maybe a few more attached heads. Maybe not a hole through one of the dead guys' stomachs. You feel like throwing up but you've learned to repress that urge a long time ago. _Who the hell is he?_  you think again. One day Deadpool's crying, the next he's stuffing his arms into some guy's gut tissues just because he didn't pay some drug lord back his money. You take a step back and then do what your reporter instincts tell you to do. You raise your camera. _Click._

XIII. "You killed again," you say. He knocks you on to your back.

XIV. He doesn't kill you again and you think that this might be the closest to liking someone Deadpool can get. You've never seen him hesitate to kill, muchless hesitate to kill twice. You're a little happy about that. Your head feels a little too light.

XV. "Oh, is there someone special?" Your aunt asks excitedly, a happy brightness in her eyes. You laugh and wonder what she would think of someone like Deadpool. You just smile and shrug politely, "maybe. Yeah. They're a little eccentric." Your aunt laughs pleasantly, "oh, Peter, honey. To keep up with you they'd have to be." And yeah, you suppose she's right.

XVI. You're tied to a chair, staring at a gun about a foot away from your face. You don't really know how a nightly patrol ended up this way, but you're trying to think of a way for you and Deadpool to both get out of here alive and safe. Too bad Deadpool's always been quicker than you, and too bad he'll always pick the messiest way out of a bad situation. "Hey meatface, over here. What, don't know how to work a gun or something. My face is up here. Let 'em rip." He taunts and you want to knock his teeth out because _no_  that is such a bad idea. Just your luck that the mobster has a temper the width of a hair. The bullets go off and there's not much you can do but curse and make your attack. The gun is empty and you fling yourself and your chair at the mobster. He topples backwards and you get enough give in the rope to free yourself. It's 1:47 AM and you're fed up and angry. You drag the mobster to the adjoining room and proceed to beat the hell out of him just because you're in a shitty mood and because he (briefly) killed your best friend. When you walk back into the room Deadpool's in, he's already awake and staring at the ceiling. "Why do you follow me?" He asks and your breath catches.

XVII. "What draws a moth to a flame?" You tug off your mask and you see that under his mask he grins. Damn him. Damn him to hell. He sees you and you know that he'll always be one step ahead of you. Just one breath faster. One note louder. He'll always be more alive than you. "What's up, Spidey?" He smiles and you love your name on his lips. You push up his mask and he protests. You see the scars and they're bloody and you wonder if this is what he's hiding. You don't mind. You don't mind at all. 

XVIII. You kiss him and that's the end of the line for your mind. Flatline. Call a doctor, I think he's dead. You panic multiple times throughout the kiss. _Is this real? What if I'm dying? Is this even realistic...? His lips wouldn't be this soft, right?_  Yet when you open your eyes again he's still there and maybe you're too young for all of this, but that doesn't stop you from hoping that it'll be this way until the day you're actually choking on blood and dying.

XIX. "Call me," he yells and you take one last picture because he looks lovely just laying there with blood running down his sides. _Didn't know you were a sadist, Parker,_  you scold yourself but take it nonetheless. _Click._ the lens snaps and you protectively hold your camera to your chest all the walk home. Let the paparazzi think what they want about Spiderman cradling a camera like an infant in his hands. Some things are more important.

XX. You have a box of photographs of him in your closet. If the picture is good, you hang it on the fridge, the way your mom used to do with your school pictures. It's kind of weird, you'll admit to that. You just like seeing him the first thing in the morning because, hell, if he can get shot in the head five times and still want to hang out with you for dinner, then you can make it through the day too.

XXI. Maybe you're both too young for this. He's had more deaths than birthdays and that makes you really fucking sad because he doesn't deserve that. He doesn't deserve all of the bad things that he's had to go through. His parents never loved him and all he has from when he was a kid are bad memories and bruises that never quite healed from the back of his dad's hand. You kiss every one of his scars but he still hates himself more than you'll ever even begin to fathom. You know that he doesn't need saving though; he's stronger than anyone you've ever met. You're there though. You'll be there as long as he wants you there. You wipe blood from his forehead and he says "thanks," you wrestle some guy to the ground and he gives you a high-five. People say he's your evil copy but they're wrong. You're following him into a warehouse full of bombs and it's him that sacrifices the most for everyone. He picks his guts off the ground and no one ever stops to say thank you.

XXII. You love him so much your head hurts and, when you tell him, he offers you aspirin. You don't need aspirin. You need his arm around your shoulders or his hand pressed against your chest so he can feel just how hard your heart beats when you're with him.

XXIII. "He's not insane!" You yell, anger escalating so fast within you that you have to close your eyes and count to five. "You don't know him. You never even tried," you say bitterly. You've never yelled at any of the other superheros so maybe that's why they listen. Polite Peter Parker. Perfect Peter Parker. You don't care about your reputation when they're insulting your boyfriend. The room goes silent and you pick up your stuff and leave, making sure to slam every door on your way out.

XXIV. No one makes fun of Deadpool after that, and You're thankful for that. You're not sure what you would've done if someone had. You prefer not to think about that. You know how easy it is to break a couple bones when you're angry. You know how quickly things get bloody when you're mad.

XXV. "My name's Wade Wilson," he says one night over the buzz of his TV. You look at him for a second and then repeat the name slowly, "Wade Wilson." He stops moving for a second and then smiles down at you—God you love that smile. "Yeah, use that," he laughs and you do. You use it religiously. Every chance you get you use it. Only you get to use his name and you're more than proud to be able to.

XXVI. "Wade Wilson," you say in front of the mirror. "Wade Wilson. I love Wade Wilson. Wade Wilson. Peter Wilson." You blush and look away from the mirror. Whoa, you're only eighteen. You shouldn't jump the gun too fast. Or should you...? You look back at the mirror. "Peter Wilson. Wade Parker." You don't know which you like better, you just know that you like them both.

XXVII. You have so many pictures of him that you can't open your fridge without some falling off. "You're almost out of room on the fridge," he says and he has a very valid point.

XXVIII. You order a bigger fridge. After a few weeks that one's filled as well though and you decide that you'll just have to branch out onto the walls. You want to show Deadpool that he's amazing and you show that with every printed photo and every tack and hole in the wall. He draws pictures of you in-between jobs and tapes them onto the empty spaces where the wallpaper still shows through. It's a competition that both of you win. You wouldn't want it any other way.

XXIX. At night you're warm and tangled together and your fingers rub up and down his arms and in-between his hands on their own. Sometimes he shies away from your touch and you wonder how you can show him that everything about him is alright. You kiss him and he whimpers, you dig your nails into his shoulders (just to make little moon-shaped crescents) and he laughs. You wonder if everything will always be kind of mismatched like that and you hope that it is. He's the only person you know who'll cry over a hug but smirk at a gunshot. It's a vestige from his past, something you embrace instead of change.

XXX. "I love you", you say and he starts to cry. You've told him before but every time you do he cries. You sit with him overlooking the city and hold him against you shoulder and let him get it out. It's times like this, when you're both alone and free, that you feel your age. He feels his age too. Just two teenagers with blood caked under their fingernails and emotional scars the size of the Grand Canyon. You lift up his mask at the same time he lifts yours and your lips touch, rough and just as frantic as the first time. His teeth catch your lip and you push him onto the cement rooftop. From there it's a tangle and slide of hands as both of you try to get closer, get on top, own the other. Tears slide over his cheeks and you kiss them away, only to have him push you off of him and slide his hands into your pants, tight against the spandex.

XXXI. You don't understand how he works at all. He's all rash motions and words that speed out and by like race cars. He's fast and you're slow. You're too careful, too scared of making a mistake. He grabs your hand and pulls you along with him until you're flying. You never thought you'd be able to fly until he showed you how. You swing from buildings and you're not scared of falling. Maybe that's what it means to be in love with Wade Wilson.

XL. "So what _does_  draw a moth to a flame?" he asks and you smile at him despite both of you being covered in blood and grime.

L. "The temptation of obtaining light. The pull of owning something so amazing that it's worth risking their life. The promise of brilliance." You pause.

LX. "What do you think of Peter Wilson?"

 

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah, that's pretty much it. Thanks for the comments & kudos! If you wanna chat or have ideas, my Tumblr is unwoundclock.tumblr.com  
> (I'm looking for maybe a BETA reader or someone to co-write with, so send me a message if you're interested :D)


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